


Food Porn

by MagiCraft



Category: Yamada Tarou Monogatari | The Story of Yamada Taro (TV)
Genre: First Time, Food Kink, Freeform, M/M, Smut, WIP, started as a one-shot, this got out of hand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-04-17 19:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14196558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagiCraft/pseuds/MagiCraft
Summary: Yamada Tarou discovers the joys of the internet age during University, and it takes him on a journey of self-discovery, with Mimura Takuya as his guide.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So many firsts. Including my first Kink!fic and the first YTM fic I've posted. Thanks to Pikamiya for the editing (and the lively conversation after) and to nao-chan, without whom I would never have thought this up. Special mention to fandom_yayness, who inspired me to rewatch the Drama.

Ichinomiya High School had had a computer lab, and Yamada had worked enough casual jobs in admin to become familiar with the basic workings of such machines. University however, was a completely different environment, and so much work had to be completed or compiled online, that Yamada would never have kept up his scholarship without getting a laptop of his own. The expense would have crippled his family finances, so when his best friend offered him an older model he said was going spare, Yamada Tarou accepted it gratefully.

The pair shared no classes after the first year, but the majority of their free periods matched or overlapped in some way, so they were often in each others company throughout the week. On weekends and holidays, Tarou would often avail himself of the Mimura Household generosity and spend time in the younger Mimura’s suite, watching Takuya unwind with a new flower arrangement or digging into the snacks Isogai enthusiastically provided.

Yamada had also recently discovered the joys of online shopping, the rock bottom pricing and coupons available to him leaving him giddy some days. He could spend hours wrapped in Mimura’s comforter on top of his bed, searching out bargains and comparing deals. It was while on the quest for the best zucchinis for the lowest price, that Yamada chanced upon a food blog, styled in English as  _ Food Porn _ .

Picture after picture of beautifully photographed dishes and ingredients.

He couldn’t understand the rambling blog entries or the pithy captions, but Tarou scrolled through the delectable images like the generated pixels were the greatest treasure he’d ever found. He did not  _ need _ the ultra HD images of food to stave away hunger like he used to; a combination of his father and siblings helping more,  the vegetable patch thriving and Mimura stopping by with edible gifts, meant the bellies of the Yamada house were rarely empty recently. It was simply a habit that had persisted for Tarou though, the sight of some well prepared cuisine would have him salivating, eyes bright with anticipation and heart thundering in his chest.

The blog became a daily stop for him.

For the first time, Tarou had the time and freedom to indulge in something that made him completely, selfishly happy, and he embraced the new facet of an old hobby. It was a tiny vice, he figured, and did not distract from his schoolwork, so he allowed it to continue even as it made him feel decidedly spoiled. Now that they ate better and more regularly, his family did not understand his inclination all that much, and Ikegami had asked him to stop emailing her with links as it was dangerous to her diet. Mimura Takuya never offered Tarou anything except abject approval however, so he turned to his well-to-do friend whenever his enthusiasm threatened to overspill.

Thoughtful, kind and loyal, Takuya would listen for long minutes, eyes fixed on Tarou, his expression clearly amused, but never betraying a hint of judgement or scorn. In the too-cold room, on the too-big bed, Tarou would wrap himself up in the too-smooth blankets that smelt like too-much soap and he’d share with Mimura all the pictures and gifs that caught his eye. After a while, Mimura would give up on trying to bend uncomfortably to see the display and would instead sit himself at Tarou’s back, long legs bracketing his crossed knees and Mimura’s chin resting at his shoulder.

At first, if Mimura was busy with work or flower arranging, Tarou tried not to interrupt, but more and more, Mimura would ask what Yamada had found interesting lately or want to see which pictures Tarou had saved that day. It became routine to end up on the bed together, heads pressed close while Tarou wondered if any of the vegetables he worked on would ever be featured on the blog.

He saw nothing odd in this predilection, until the blog’s server crashed. He happened to be distracted by an upcoming deadline, so the lack wasn’t too noticeable the first week. During the day, he could find leaflets and advertisements all over the place, to satisfy himself, but evenings were harder. At Mimura’s place, they talked about other things while the staff supplied treats and Tarou carelessly arranged flowers of his own. In spite of this, Tarou found himself missing Takuya’s proximity as his food blog famine continued.

There was no shortage of food imagery in the real world to keep Tarou sated, but without the excuse of scrolling through a website, his reasons to call Mimura to his side were few and far between. He didn’t look too closely at why that should bother him; just that he had gotten used to the warmth at his back, and he felt the loss keenly.

All the same, when he typed in some key words and phrases from the blog into the search bar to help find a substitute, a curious sense of guilt washed over him.

What he discovered then sent his libido reeling.

Tarou had not exactly been a  _ normal _ teen. Puberty had come and gone with little fanfare because when all his friends had suddenly found an interest in sex, Tarou had been preoccupied with the need to eat.  He knew the mechanics at least, but had never really experienced desire as a driving need.

As frame after frame of indecent video auto-played silently on the screen in his lap then, however, heat burned through his veins. He saw food being used in a way that awakened a different kind of hunger in him and had his mouth watering even as his throat closed up to choke down a groan. On the screen, a pert breast, swirled artfully with cream quivered as an eager mouth closed around the nipple. He saw a dribble of syrup travel down from her navel to pool at the thatch of hair between her legs, glistening invitingly before being lapped up just as hungrily.

Years of image training had given Tarou the unique ability to perfectly imagine what most things would taste like, how they would smell, and how they would feel under his tongue, but these new possibilities threw his fantasies into overdrive. He didn’t have enough experience to fill in the texture of a warm body,  or the scent or flavour of a woman, and the curiosity of it seized him.

Lust coiled low in his belly, as the scene played out, the laptop and the quilt hiding the full effect it was having on his body. Except that Tarou’s eyes were no longer on the monitor, but half unfocused on his best friend, as Mimura circled his work with an exotic display of rare blooms. His mind took the images and reconstructed them so that it was Takuya laid out before him, bare chested and coated in chocolate. He pictured the normally cool Mimura twitching under his tongue as Tarou traced patterns over the ridges of his abdomen, the confection changed by the salty taste of sweat that covered him.

He pretended the hitch of his own breath was Mimura, and that the restless pull of his own cock was how the man would feel. In his head, he chased the last of the dark chocolate to the column of Mimura’s neck, catching his teeth on the tendons that pulled tight as the man arched under his touches. Takuya’s full lips would fall open, and Tarou would feel him desperately whisper his name against his ear.

The fantasy was so real, and so immediate he didn’t see Mimura put down his clippers, despite staring right at him. If he heard his friend calling his name, his brain twisted it to fit the vision it was crafting on its own. It was only after Mimura had settled at his back, and Tarou was trapped in the cage of his legs, that reality crashed around him.

“Ah!” He jumped, and tried to shrink away, though Mimura was bigger, and he held fast to the small laptop from around Tarou’s waist. “I- I didn’t… I’m not- I, um- I didn’t notice you coming.”

“Obviously.” Mimura had spoken into the shell of his ear a hundred times before, and it had never made Yamada shiver like it did then. Some remnant of his too vivid imagination had made the word  _ drip _ with heat, he thought, and he cringed anew when he realised Takuya was watching the video still playing silently on his laptop.

“I wasn’t watching it!” As much as he wanted to slam the lid shut, their positions made it impossible.

“I know. You were looking at me the whole time.” This time there was no mistaking the pleasure Mimura took from that fact; Tarou could feel the man smile smugly against the nape of his neck. Then he angled the computer in Tarou’s lap, drawing their attention to the screen where the woman was now spread wide while various phallic vegetables were thrust inside of her and eaten by faceless men. Tarou squirmed, hands coming up to cover his face even as his body reacted and he whimpered.  

“Don’t hide.” Mimura shifted, displacing the machine and sitting himself in the space in front of Tarou instead. He sat there, hands clasped in his lap until Tarou met his gaze. Trembling and ashamed, Yamada could barely peek through his lashes, when he did though, his friend was utterly unfazed. “Does it interest you? Do you want to try it?”

Tarou could only nod as Takuya reached for the platter of snacks and drew his finger through the pristine frosting of a bite-sized cake. He brought the digit to his lips, pausing just shy of smearing the sugary treat on himself. “Well? What do you want? On me? Or you?”

The surge of lust at the offer had his cock straining uncomfortably in his trousers. He forgot to breath while he tried to hold still to not embarrass himself further. Mimura’s willingness made him bold however, and Tarou took him by the wrist and flicked his tongue at the thick white mess at the tip. He watched Mimura watch him, as he licked up the sides with broad swipes, and then closed his mouth over the full length, sucking every last crease and knuckle clean. He saw Mimura’s almond eyes darken and flutter shut and he forgot to notice the taste at all.

Nothing he imagined could have compared to the sight of his best friend blindly stretching to gather more icing on his hand and streaking it messily over his own lips, some rolling down his chin. It was all the invitation Tarou needed. The blanket between them fell away and he bridged the gap between them, tangling his hands in Mimura’s thick hair for leverage.

Tarou started at the soft, unblemished skin at Takuya’s throat, sampling the raw taste of the man. He used his tongue to follow the square line of his jaw, enjoying the slight rasp of barely-there stubble and the way his adams apple jumped when Tarou moaned appreciatively against his flesh. He followed the trail of icing to Mimura’s lips, letting the sugar melt over his tongue, wet and warm. Mimura’s lips were plump, cool in the places Tarou had not touched, but so pink and moist where his mouth had been, that he could not resist taking the bottom lip in his teeth, testing the noises he could draw out.

Mimura grunted, his hand, dirtied by cake, fumbling at the fabric of his shirt. Tarou stopped. “Mimura-kun? Is this really OK?” His nerves were fraught, and he felt like his clothes would suffocate him. He was restless, strangely hollow, desperate to be full and just on the edge of a feast. His belly ached with need, his body burning, reacting in ways he couldn’t describe, to every touch of Mimura’s skin.

The man shrugged out of his shirt with the gentle smile that he usually reserved for when he thought Tarou wasn’t looking. “It’s fine. I should have known really, when I realised you could only connect emotionally with a hamburger.”

Tarou let Takuya help him out of his t-shirt, the cold blast of air conditioning pebbling his skin. “You don’t think I’m a weird pervert?”

“ _ Tch _ , come here.” Mimura snatched Yamada’s hand, forcing it under the waistband of his trousers to palm at his dick, as hard and as heavy as Tarou’s own. “Does it matter? I’m right here with you. I’m so fucking hard, Tarou. I want it so bad. Does it matter, how you enjoy it if nobody gets hurt?”

Mimura had released him, but Tarou didn’t move his hand.  In answer, he explored the truth of Takuya’s desire and curled his fist around the length of him. With some shuffling, he had his friends pants halfway down his thighs, and he knelt close to examine the sight of him.  Mimura’s cock sprang proud, twitching with each soft brush of Tarous hand, a drop of precome pearling at the head in response to his clumsy strokes. The needy, encouraging sounds that Takuya made filled the room, and Tarou’s hips rocked to the rhythm of his moans.

The small measure of friction was enough to blur his vision, but he wasn’t ready yet. He wanted Mimura to know how good he was feeling, how much he was enjoying it, and how badly he wanted to make his friend happy. “Can I taste you, Mimura-kun?”

“ _ Ughn _ … Takuya. Ca-call me Takuya. Please.” His voice was thick, fingers kneading the muscles of Tarou’s shoulder even as he nodded to the question. Yamada swallowed around his cock, tearing a cry from Mimura, his hold bruising while Tarou slicked him up and down. There was no technique to speak of, Yamada simply licked and sucked and sampled without pace or purpose. Takuya’s flesh was just a new delicacy to be experienced, to be thoroughly and completely savoured in every way.

Still, Mimura arched into him, his voice growing strained as he murmured on the edge of Tarou’s hearing. Mimura thrust into his mouth, increasingly urgent. The smooth glide of hot skin over his tongue thrilled him, and Tarou had never felt so full, choking on the hard, throbbing meat. His eyes watered, saliva and precome dribbling over his chin, as he buried his nose in the coarse hair at the base of Takuya’s cock and sucked hard.

Mimura swore, shooting fast and thick down Tarou’s throat. Yamada pulled back on the last few strokes, rolling the final drops on the flat of his tongue, adding his own moan of delight to Mimura’s broken groans.  

Slowly, Tarou crawled up Takuya’s body, sweat slick chest to bare chest, and slotted their mouths together, sharing the lingering taste. Tarou’s erection pressed between them, but when Mimura reached for him, Yamada flinched.

“Ah, you don’t have to. I can take care of it myself.” He blushed, sitting up suddenly and scrambling around for the rest of his clothes.

Mimura, the image of debauchery, nearly naked, and fully sated in the middle of his luxurious bed, rose more slowly, confusion and concern flashing over his features.   “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing. It’s just…. I’ve never- nobody has ever- I... I’d rather do it myself.”

“Seriously?” He clearly wanted to ask why, or to insist, but to Tarou’s great relief he did neither. In a moment, he accepted Yamada’s position and adapted. “Then…” He drew out the syllable, his confident smirk contradicted by the uncertainty in his voice. “Can I watch?”

Having spent his life in close quarters, wishing in those rare moments of need for some privacy, Yamada was unprepared for how titillating the thought of a witness would be. He was already shaking, and harder than he’d ever been in his life, fighting to keep from soiling his clothes. He could only nod, eyes squeezed shut as he took himself in hand. It was almost painful, with his skin stretched so tight and too dry to move the way he wanted over himself. He could hear the rustle of bedding as Takuya moved to get a better look, he felt the mattress dip in front of him and the smell of come and cake filled his nose.

He moved fast and hard, ripping the orgasm from himself as quickly and as silently as the few times he’d dared before. His eyes opened only at the end, to see the streaks of white dotting the expensive bedding where he’d failed to catch it in his palm, but Mimura didn’t seem to care. While Tarou tried to get his breathing under control, the other man took a tissue, gently cleaning the mess he’d left behind.

He didn’t say anything once it was over, though some part of him wanted to apologise. Together they fixed their clothes and stripped the bed in silence. The laptop, half open and still playing the obscene video, Takuya picked up and closed. He laid the device with the rest of Tarou’s school things and took one of the untouched sweets in passing.

“You can stay tonight, you know.” Mimura finally spoke up, seeming to sense that Tarou could not. “Or just stay for dinner or whatever. It wouldn’t be weird or anything.”

“I think I’ll just take a shower and head home.” It took effort to sound so calm when he was panicking so much on the inside, but he was proud of himself for getting away with it. Mimura Takuya was wrong, Tarou thought, it  _ was  _ weird; he was never going to be able to fantasise about food the same way again – or think about dinner with Mimura without being hungry for him. For now, he just needed time to digest what had happened.

He didn’t need to say that though; Takuya understood him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, it turns out I could stop writing this so now it has chapters. Sorry not sorry.

Mimura Takuya didn’t understand it  _ at all _ .

He had known his own mind since the moment he’d made the decision to fake an attack of hayfever to save Yamada’s hind. He had also come to the decision to put his desires aside to let Yamada find his own happiness nearly as quickly. All of Yamada Tarou’s interests were wrapped up in his family and taking care of them. It was to his credit, but it also meant that anything that was solely about himself as a person – as a man – was completely side-lined.

There was a time, not long after they met, when Mimura thought Ikegami might somehow catch Tarou’s attention. Mimura had even encouraged it; tried to help mould her into a person he would deem worthy of his remarkable friend, but they had never developed more than a close friendship. He’d been baffled at first, that Ikegami had failed to barge her way into Tarou’s heart, then secretly glad that that it gave him more time to bask in the uncomplicated joy of Yamada’s existence. He had been completely content to treasure his friendship with Yamada, and to leave him unburdened by sentiment he wasn’t in a position to return.

Now though….

He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but as Tarou had matured, flourishing within the precepts of University life, Takuya  _ had _ been finding it harder to keep his pining from influencing his actions. He had justified every intimacy as platonically meant, because Tarou had always been open and welcoming of such things, but deep down was that really true?

When he’d felt Tarou’s gaze on him the other night, when he’d called out to the man sitting glassy-eyed on his bed, he did not know what he was about to trigger in himself. The moment he understood what was happening, when he saw for the first time the proof that Yamada was capable of his own urges, Takuya had acted on impulse. He had been thoughtful of Tarou, of course; it was second nature to him, remembering his own, less than ideal sexual awakening, yet he had forgotten to consider how his own life might be affected once he knew the hungry touch of the man.

Mimura was angry at himself for not being able to stand back again. It didn’t make sense to him that his self-control had been so completely shattered by a piece of Victoria Sponge and a blow job. Tarou had given no indication beyond that brief encounter that his interest lay with Mimura, in fact, his swift retreat suggested the opposite. Still, even with his conscience screaming at him, putting him on edge, Mimura could not ignore his own longing anymore.

He wanted Yamada Tarou.

It frightened him when this friend raced home that night, but he hadn’t wanted to add to his discomfort. They had not even had a chance to talk about it; every time they had seen each other since, they’d been too public, or in the company of friends or family. It seemed like the Yamada siblings were spending even more time with their older brother than before. Mimura didn’t mind that Jirou and Saburou came along when Tarou came to the Mimura house to collect the parcel of pantry staples his grandfather had told the staff to gift to the Yamada’s, he was just disappointed by the missed opportunity, that was all.

It made sense that Tarou wanted to show the boys how to get by without him, now that he was home less often, but for Mimura, the timing could not have been worse.

Takuya had been counting on the visit to afford him a moment alone with his friend. It was a complicated feeling: to want to apologise with everything in him, but to not be sorry for himself – to want to take it all back and do it all over again. He should have handled it better, he told himself. He could have stopped Tarou from dashing off. He should never have let himself get so carried away. He should have handled it much more gently, much more like a friend.

It was a lot to say. A difficult conversation they needed to have. Mimura had never been afraid of tough topics though, especially with Tarou. Finding the right timing was the issue. The longer things went unsaid, the harder they were to say.

At least Tarou did not seem to be avoiding him all together. In fact, Yamada Tarou was much the same, when not zoning out through hunger or possibly daydreaming about an upcoming sale. They had walked through the busy main gate into school together the very next morning. Granted, Tarou hadn’t raced to catch up to him, but Takuya knew what it was to feel awkward the morning after the night before. He hadn’t taken that personally.

It had been three days now. Three days wherein Mimura had lost the battle with his heart and knew he couldn’t give up without at least trying. Except that every time he thought he’d be able to clear the air, to clean the slate in order to start fresh, he was thwarted by circumstance. It was all so  _ frustrating _ .

Not least because he considered himself a patient person. He once set a booby-trap in November, knowing that the garden supplies he’d rigged would not be needed until Spring. That particular incident was all the sweeter because he’d genuinely forgotten about it when the trap was finally sprung, but Mimura didn’t want this thing between them to be a ticking time-bomb. Nor did he want it to be something forgotten.  

The problem, Mimura decided, was that Tarou was too clueless to know that Takuya wanted to speak to him alone. Outright asking to be alone together while they were in mixed company would just be asking for trouble. So when Tarou, on his arrival with his brothers in tow, alluded to bringing them again, and whenever his planned to come in future, Mimura barely had time to process what that might mean. With workloads increasing as they advanced through University, and the frequency of Tarou’s part time jobs on the rise, Takuya had no idea when it would next just be the pair of them.

He was quiet as he led all three Yamada boys to the kitchen, where the surplus goods had already been packaged neatly. Jirou, mouth agape, stared, Saburou clapped. “There’s so much!” They spoke together, promptly dissolving into laughter, like their joy was spilling over and making every little thing ten times funnier than it was.

Only Tarou seemed uncomfortable. “With this much, we wouldn’t need to shop for a month.”

He shrugged. “So?”

“Isn’t it too much?” The words were meant for Mimura, but Tarou had addressed his brothers, not looking up at the taller man at all. “Some of the stuff here will only last a few weeks, it would be a waste for us to take those.” He continued, using the moment to instil another principle thrifty living in the younger boys.

“We can take  _ some _ of it though, can’t we?” Saburou was eyeing a pack of milk buns with a short shelf life. “If we eat that stuff first?”

“Yes. But we’ll need to sort through this all properly and choose what to take.”

They got to work right away, breaking down the bundles that the maids had pre-packed and sorting them with remarkable efficiency and teamwork. It was fascinating to watch them plan a month of meals from things Takuya would not know what to do with. They made two piles based on shelf-life of the items, and after making two bundles out of the non-perishables, began dividing down the rest into the to things they  _ really _ wanted, and could use in time. The whole time, they smiled and joked, the task completed quickly and with much joy.

On their way out, with their gifts in tow, Mimura watched the two younger Yamada boys marvel at the interior of his house much like their brother on his first visit. Of course, that visit had been under entirely different circumstances, though the memory did spark an idea: If he could not be sure of when he would have a chance to speak with Tarou again, he could engineer one. He had just the right occasion, too.

On the walk back to the trio’s humble wooden home, Mimura put his new plan into action. “Oh, by the way.” He began, waiting for Tarou to pay attention.

“Mm?”

“Grandfather will be hosting an event next week. He hates the responsibility of such things and usually avoids having them, but he couldn’t get out of it this time. The thing is, he’s left organising so late, we really don’t have enough help. Not good help anyway. He asked if you would be willing to work for him that night?”

“Uh, I don’t know, Mimura-kun….”

“It would only be five, maybe six hours.” Takuya continued. He didn’t cajole, just stated the facts. “And he said he’d pay the same rate you had before.”

“EHH!?” Tarou stopped in the middle of the street, only yards from home. “Seriously!?”

Mimura smiled. He could see the gears already turning in Tarou’s head and knew he had succeeded.

“No pantyhose this time, right?” He asked in a whisper of token resistance.

“Not unless you  _ want _ to.”

“NO!”

Takuya pretended to misunderstand the no as a refusal of the job offer. “No? That’s too bad…”

Tarou, obviously flushed with the prospect of a windfall, looked deep into Mimura’s eyes for the first time in days. “What time do I need to be there?”

Takuya’s heart skipped a beat. “Six”

Tarou’s heartfelt thank you as he disappeared into his home was all it took to get Takuya’s heart racing again.

Back home, he outright told his grandfather that he’d hired Tarou for the banquet. The old man had his own soft spot for the brilliant but humble student. It was true that Mimura Hijirichi avoided having to host events as much as possible, but he would never have been so unprepared with less than a week to go. This was mainly because other people were employed early on to organise and arrange the whole affair.

It would be simple enough to add Tarou to whatever temporary staff the event planner had engaged, and Yamada would not actually be  _ needed _ , so when Mimura finally got him alone, neither of them would be missed.

In the meantime, the days passed slowly. They saw each other frequently, passing each other when their timetables didn’t match, or sitting down to lunch. It was never just the pair of them anymore. Tarou talked to him though, bemoaning the way a hundred unexpected but necessary expenses would appear every time he thought he was going to have a little spare.

“It’s the  _ worst, _ Mimura-kun.” Tarou slumped dejectedly, his forehead pressed to the simple lunchbox in front of him. Tarou rarely brought food from home, preferring instead to eat directly from Mimura’s lunch. Recently, Yoshiko was learning how to cook, and had taken to providing her beloved older brother with simple lunches – unfortunately, she seemed to have inherited her mother’s skill in the kitchen. “I was looking forward to not being so busy after your grandfather’s party, but now…. The repairs to the cooker are going to be expensive. We had to cook on the barbeque last night!”

Takuya really did feel for him. Tarou worked harder than anyone he knew, yet barely kept his family from drowning. He shrugged off every injustice, smiled in the face of every cruel twist and moved forward with his head up, never letting the weight of it bow him. And the only person he ever uttered a word of complaint to - the only one Tarou would confess a grievance to - was Mimura himself.  It was a privileged position, to be Yamada’s confidant, one that he knew he had risked once.

“What did Yoshiko-chan make for you?” He asked, eyes drawn in opposition while Tarou tentatively removed the lid from the battered container.

“ _ Onigiri _ .” He was cringing as he said it. “The rice should be fine; it’s just the leftovers from the dinner I made. The filling is what worries me.”

Mimura opened his own lunch, a rather luxurious assortment of different items. “You can share some of mine, if you like.”

“No. That’s OK!” Tarou nearly elbowed the person next to him with the size of his gestures. “Since she went to the trouble to make it and all…”

Watching Yamada try to eat  _ around _ a ball of rice, to avoid the ingredients hidden inside was amusing at least, and Takuya was grinning when he began feeding himself. He was used to Yamada finishing his food quickly and using the extra time to search for local offers, so it was strange that Tarou sat staring, long after he’s finished with Yoshiko’s cooking, without a laptop or leaflet laid out before him.

“That’s unusual.” Mimura swallowed his most recent mouthful, licking his lips and reaching for his drink. “You’d normally be looking for deals on the net by now.”

“Um, I left the laptop at home.” His eyes darted away, red creeping into his cheeks. “These weird ads keep, uh, that is- ah.”

Mimura’s own bark of laughter caught him off-guard, and he spat a thin spray of tea into his palm before he brought himself under control. He wiped at his wet chin with his silk handkerchief. “Delete your search history and cookies, idiot.” He advised, careful not to draw listeners by whispering. “And use an incognito window next time.”

He’d meant it as a gentle tease, but Tarou gasped, red-faced and offended. “I’ve got-” He was already walking away, stiffly not looking back. “See you later.”

It happened so quickly Mimura didn’t even have time to call out to stop him; to apologise for being too crass when this was clearly a sensitive subject. In a mad scramble that belied his usual calm, Takuya grabbed his things and Tarou’s abandoned lunchbox and followed him. He was too far to shout when he saw Tarou disappear around one corner then another. The further the smaller man walked, taking less populated walkways to less frequented areas, the less inclined Takuya was to let Yamada know he was there.

No matter how angry Tarou might be at him, it made no sense to climb to an empty floor of a building he had no classes in. There was also a sense of urgency to the way Tarou moved, too full of purpose.

Then, on the fourth floor, where every classroom was empty and only the emergency lights were in use, he saw Tarou disappear into the men’s toilet.

He stopped in his tracks, rolling his eyes at his own antics. “What the hell am I doing?” He muttered under his breath. He stood at the far and of the hallway, frustrated with himself for being rash again.

Did he really think for a moment that his friend was up to anything? He had probably just needed a quiet place to suffer the consequences of Yoshiko’s lunch. Tarou probably wasn’t mad at all, and Takuya had chased after him like a lovesick puppy, which was pathetic, even if it was true. But then, he’d been following Tarou since the day they met, he thought to himself wryly.

He waited outside the bathroom, ready to give Tarou his lunchbox and walk him back to class. After two minutes, his concern grew: What if the poor food had actually been dangerous?

The weight of the silence on the floor stopped Mimura from calling out as he walked into the bathroom, where a handful of cubicles lined one wall, opposite a row of sinks. It was the sound of Tarou’s breathing that made him catch the slowly closing door and brace it so that it did not slam against the jab.

From the stall furthest from the door, Yamada moaned. His breathing was short and sharp, coming in quick puffs then abruptly breaking over a groan. Mimura stood frozen. He wasn’t hearing Tarou in some kind of gastric distress, but something altogether more erotic.

There was no mistaking that noise; not after Mimura had burned it into his memory so recently. If he closed his eyes, he could replay the scene in his head to match the sound. Tarou, eyes scrunched tight, jaw clenched to keep from crying out, working his hand over himself roughly. His breaths coming through his teeth in time with his long strokes; desperate to stay quiet but unable to hold back the gratifying sob of desire as he got closer.

A single decisive bang from inside the stall, and Mimura imagined Tarou had braced one arm on a wall, holding himself up with one hand as he thrust into the fist of the other. Or maybe he had his back to the wall, and Tarou had thrown his head against it as he arched into his work-rough palms. It didn’t matter; the effect was the same. Tarou hissed, and then Takuya could  _ hear _ every stroke the man made over his skin, a wet slap that got louder and faster from sweat or spit or his own leaking dick.

The sharp breaths slowed, beginning to stretch into muffled groans and mumbled syllables just on the edge of hearing.  Mimura held his own breath, straining to hear over the rush of blood filling in his ears.

“ _ uhn, mmn…  _ Please…” The choked-out plea echoed obscenely, and with the silence so broken, Tarou seemed to let go completely. He panted and whined and whimpered freely, and every wretched, improper utterance buzzed through Mimura’s body. His own hands white knuckled around the strap of his bag, as he dared not give in to the urge to move them lower. It was too tempting to throw aside restraint and join Yamada in his desperate quest for relief, to match his frantic tempo until he was writhing under his own touch too.

“I want-  _ ah, hah. _ Just a… little… hah~” Each needy cry got bolder; Tarou talking to whatever image he was using to get himself off, and Takuya wished he had been so brave before. What he wouldn’t give to see Tarou eager and pliant, unencumbered by inhibitions.

The wet slick beat stuttered, the rhythm breaking on a growl, deeper and darker than Mimura had ever heard from the man. “Give it to me.  _ Please? _ ” The demand was forceful, strong, the added plea a grit-teethed whisper. He peaked, coming in uneven grunts and finishing with trembling breaths.

Then finally, as if just waking up from sleep, Tarou sighed, and Mimura was certain he heard the syllables of his name drop from Tarou’s lips.

The sudden utter stillness was deafening and dangerous for Takuya. If Tarou discovered him there, motionless but half-hard and flushed just inside the door, there was no telling how the man might react. He’d seemed OK with everything before, too, until he wasn’t, and this was hardly the same thing. Yamada had come to this abandoned restroom to take care of himself without an audience, and Mimura had already stayed too long. That last word though, his name on Tarou’s tongue at a moment like that: It bolstered him.

Tomorrow would be a better day.

He had worried that that night was an aberration. That Yamada had only responded like he had because Mimura had said he wanted him. After all, Tarou had such a desire to help others, Mimura was concerned it might extend to sexual favours too. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel if he had to come to terms with that as the truth.  

This moment gave him hope that maybe, just a little, Yamada Tarou wanted him too.

He slipped out of the bathroom as silently as he arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 coming on 05/05/2018


	3. Chapter 3

The orange cummerbund was a little tight around his waist, as Isogai adjusted it for him. The butler had helped Tarou dress for his role as a server tonight with an added twinkle in his eye. The white dress shirt was bright, and crisp, starched into shape and fitted perfectly. He studied himself critically in the mirror of the staff rest quarter, surprised to find how much he looked like an attendee rather than an employee. The uniform, if he could call it that, of white shirt, black dress trousers and shoes, with coloured cummerbund and matching bowtie made him look like a member of the aristocracy.

It was a comment he had heard whispered about himself for years, but he’d never actually seen it before this moment. His hair had been combed into a neat side parting by the housekeeper, after she’d practically thrown him in the bath upon arrival. She had even insisted he shave, though Yamada had already done so that week, and he didn’t think the fuzz above his lip was that noticeable. Without it though, he looked paler, more gamine, and more like a character from a manga than himself.

The sandpaper growl of Mimura Hijirichi boomed from the corridor beyond the chamber. Tarou could not make out all the words, and was trying not to listen anyway, but it was clear the old man was shouting at a subordinate. He looked to Isogai to fill in the blanks, when he heard the man rail against “Incompetent half-wits who didn’t know what they were doing!”

“It seems this evening’s event is not quite done to the tastes Mimura-sama would have preferred.” The butler explained. “He took the chance on hiring a pair of Event Co-ordinators who have worked big international events and, well…. Minura-sama is very traditional, which is to the credit of this house, you understand, but it seems the Co-ordinators have put together a theme for this evening’s festivities.”

“A theme?”

Before Isogai could answer, Mimura had arrived, closing the door firmly behind him to further muffle his grandfather’s diatribe. “It’s a Silver Platter Service Regency Banquet.” Mimura couldn’t hide the gleam in his eyes or the anticipatory grin the statement caused. He was gleefully awaiting whatever chaos this night would bring. He was wearing the most ridiculous French military-inspired long coat, in deep reds and golds. The epaulettes squared off his shoulders, making him seem broader, the braided cords emphasising the movement of his chest as it rocked with soundless mirth. 

He truly did look like an 18th century noble, with lace peeking from his sleeves and at his throat, and the heeled riding boots turning up his calves. It should have been absurd, to be dressed not just for the wrong era, but for the wrong geographic location, but the cool self-assurance with which Mimura accomplished anything seemed to extend to pulling off irrational fashion choices too.

Takuya gave Tarou a once over of his own. “That’s good. You’ll be on serving duty. Walk around the marquee with a tray of food and go back to the kitchen to get more when you run out. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” It seemed too good to be true, but then, most things with Mimura seemed that way to Tarou. He had tried not to question it too much in the past, afraid of tempting his luck. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’ll be around.”

He tried not to read anything in Mimura’s tone. It had been a strange week for himself; constantly finding the most innocuous things arousing at the most inopportune times, and if he thought too hard, he’d find himself in an unfortunate situation with nowhere to run. Not that he believed that his friend meant anything by it, of course, Tarou had been doing some research about what might have gotten into him since that evening with the cake.

He was afflicted the same way many of his classmates in middle school had been, he reasoned, his biology finally catching up on a rite of passage he thought he had been lucky to avoid in his youth. According to the medical website he studied, it was not unusual for some people to experience these things later than their peers. His findings left him feeling much better about what had happened with Mimura too; clearly, his friend had recognised what was happening with him, and had acted to help him without hesitation.

Nonetheless, it wouldn’t be right to impose upon Mimura’s good nature, and this was not the time for such distractions anyway. He was being paid to do a job, and he intended to carry out his work properly. He thought about the broken cooker instead, and the prospect of more of Yoshiko’s cuisine after it was fixed. It was antithesis to the stray images that tried to pull his focus.

The party itself was hosted from under a large tent in the garden, festooned with string lights and garlands of artificial flowers that Tarou heard the head of the household complaining bitterly about more than once. He worked, head high and back straight, but he really didn’t pay attention to the party happening around him. He didn’t even know why Mimura’s grandfather was hosting the event, only that it wasn’t a birthday party, and there would be no giant cake at the end. He’d checked.

Takuya was expected to mingle, though Yamada made only one lap with a tray of hors d'oeuvres before the taller man was back at his side. He took a crostini topped with mozzarella and parma ham, and popped it straight into his mouth. “You should see what they wanted my grandfather to wear.” He whispered conspiratorially, his words mumbling around the food that he held in his cheeks.

“Mimura-kun, I’m busy” Tarou reminded him, while his friend hastily chewed, and audibly swallowed his appetizer.

“Hang on.” Takuya took the platter out of his hands and placed it down on a nearby side table.

“What are you doing?”

He was grinning with mischief when he returned with his phone ready to snap a shot of them both, his other arm pulling Tarou in at the waist, so he would fit in the frame. “Say cheese.” Mimura released him just as quickly, attention all on the device as he scrolled through his contacts. “There, a souvenir for Ikegami-san.”

It was a few moments before Yamada moved to reclaim his platter. “I need to go get a new tray.” He excused himself politely. On the trip back inside the house to the kitchen, Tarou gulped in the cool evening air, telling himself to get a grip. It wasn’t fair on Mimura, that Tarou became like a cat on a hot tin roof whenever he saw the man eating now. It was his own overactive imagination that saw every innocent nibble and mouthful, and coloured it with the memory of what had gone on before. It wasn’t Mimura’s fault that Tarou had not yet found a way to deal with his unintentional reaction beyond putting distance between them, and Takuya deserved better than that.

The kitchen was teeming with harried cooks and caterers, household staff and temporary workers jostling for space to complete the tasks necessary to run such an ambitious event. Years of making himself indispensable in very dispensable positions gave the underprivileged young man all the experience he needed however. He left his nearly empty platter next to a pair of liveried staff who were consolidating the remnants from used trays into pleasing, full arrangements on new plates, in a touch of prudence that Tarou could appreciate amidst the extravagances of everything else.

He stopped to wash his hands and didn’t need to be told to collect the crudités and headed back to the party. To his surprise, Mimura had waited for him. He didn’t say anything, but fell into step companionably as Tarou began circling the area again. Whenever a guest stopped Tarou to grab a bite, his friend would pause alongside him, exchange pleasantries with the guest, and move right along when Tarou did. Halfway through the second lap, Tarou called him on it.

“Shouldn’t you be enjoying the party?”

“I am.” He shrugged. “Grandfather told me to circulate.”

He watched Mimura take a long stick of sliced carrot from the tray and looked away just in time to see Isogai approach them.

“Ah, Yamada-san could I trouble you a moment?” He asked. Tarou jumped to respond affirmatively, and the butler took a small sheet of note paper from his pocket, folded neatly in half. “The kitchen staff has discovered a lack of some necessary items. Unfortunately, I am busy receiving guests, and the other staff are all otherwise engaged.”

Mimura interrupted, snatching the note from the man because Tarou had no immediate place to sit down the platter. “You want him to go to the store? Now?”

“It isn’t ideal, I apologise. I have written down what is needed. The address of the establishment is also on the note.”

Mimura looked at it quickly. “This place is two stations away.” His tone made it clear he was not happy about the task being asked.

Tarou shifted, turning his shoulders to come between his friend and the affable butler. “Mimura-kun, it’s fine. Stuff like this is what I’m being paid for. It’s still early, I’m sure it won’t take me that long to get there and back.”

Mimura glowered for a moment, then suddenly, his expression transformed. His hard glare became speculative, the tight jaw and pursed lips relaxed, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Keys.” He snapped expectantly, palm out to Isogai.

Concerned, Yamada gaped when the diffident servant passed over his car key. “What are you doing, Mimura-kun?”

“I’ll take you there myself.” He allowed for no argument, and at the same moment Isogai was relieving him of the large silver dish, Mimura was leading him away from the marquee to the car.

Tarou had no idea where they were heading when Mimura drove smoothly through the gates, switching into third gear as he drove down the street, joining the evening traffic. Sat in the passenger seat, Tarou took the shopping list from the console where it had been left and scanned over the items required. Unfamiliar words and letter combinations greeted him in neat black ink, written in Katakana and the roman alphabet; he recognised none of them. Grateful to have them already written form to show the clerk, he tucked the note into his breast pocket.

Behind them, the lights of the town fell away, the road growing dark and narrow as Mimura carefully followed the instructions from the on board satellite navigation. They travelled on for miles, taking back roads, side-streets and the odd dirt track, and Tarou began to wonder if it might have been quicker to take the train after all, when a look of consternation crossed Mimura’s face. Tarou saw the man’s hands clenching reflexively on the wheel, his profile showing the crease of his brow. Then Tarou heard it; the gravelly rumble of rubber too slack on tarmac.

“Mimura-kun, pull over.” He advised.

“Something’s wrong.”

Yamada waited until Mimura pulled slowly to the side of an empty highway. “It sounds like a flat tire.” He agreed, unclipping his belt ready to get out and inspect the wheels.

The wealthy young man let the worry show plainly on his face. “Who do I call? Highway Maintenance or something?”

He didn’t mean to laugh, but it bubbled up unbidden from his chest. “I bet there’s a spare in the trunk.” He reassured the driver. “I can change the tire.”

“You know how? That’s surprising.”

“I worked part time with a mechanic.” Tarou explained. “I was surprised you know how to drive. When did you learn?”

“What are you talking about? Of course I learned how to drive. I have Isogai, don’t I?”

“You learned how to drive, but not how to change a tire?”

“I have Isogai for that too.”

“Except right now.” Tarou noted, jumping out of the car and shutting the door behind himself. He wasn’t sure if Mimura heard him add: “But you do have me.”

He walked around the back of the car, spotting the issue with the rear right tire immediately, and he motioned for Mimura to open the trunk. As he suspected, Isogai kept everything he needed stocked and in good working order.

It was a chilly evening, the wind picking up and cutting through the white dress shirt of his uniform, but he undid the cuffs and carefully rolled them up his sleeves to his elbow despite this. Swapping out the tires would work up a sweat anyway, no matter low the temperature fell.

From the drivers seat, Takuya watched as Tarou gathered tools from the rear of the car, placing the jack just so, before cranking it enough to get the spent tire clear of the road. In the wing mirror, he saw the tendons in Yamada’s arms contract with effort, his blunt fingers curled around the tire-iron and the fabric of his shirt stretching and pulling across his shoulders as he removed each bolt.

The first drop of rain fell fat and heavy on the windscreen, and was singular for long moments before another fell. Then, more quickly, the rain began to pour from the thick clouds, pushed sideways by the biting wind. He rolled down his window, calling for Tarou to return to the car, but the smaller man waved him off.

“It’s fine!” He shouted, turning his face towards Mimura so his words would not be snatched away by the gale. “Stay there; this won’t take too much longer.” Water ran in rivulets down his face, one eye closed as he tired to keep his head angled out of the worst of the spray. Already the water was plastering his deep black hair to his head, the shirt beginning to cling at his back.

“You’re going to get soaked.” Mimura pointed out futilely. Pulling open his own door to physically drag the man back inside if needed.

“I said stay there!” The command was surprising not for the fact that it was delivered by Yamada Tarou, but because there was clear irritation in his voice. “There’s no point in us both getting rained on.” Mimura froze, he couldn’t tell whether Tarou had spoken through his teeth due to exasperation or whether he was just trying to keep them from chattering, but reluctantly, he remained behind the wheel.

Sheets of water obscured the view in his mirror once he shut the door again, and he bounced back against the seat. He felt the vehicle rock slightly as the old tire was removed from the axel, heard the slap of rubber hitting the surface rainwater on the road and felt gallingly useless as he waited for Tarou to finish this task for him. Fingers drumming over the steering wheel, restless, he muttered to himself, privately vowing to read up on car maintenance.

Takuya had initially planned to use this evening to get Tarou in private, to talk and to confess how he felt about the man if he could. Mimura had been relaxed about it all evening, knowing that at some point, whether by fate or design, it would come down to just the pair of them. Then the drive had presented itself as the perfect opportunity to bring it up, especially once he was so sure that the uncomplicated, startlingly open man reflected his own desires. He was beginning to regret his earlier nonchalance.

Outside, Tarou battled the elements. The fancy leather shoes he borrowed slipped under him when he lifted the heavy tire. The tire iron seemed to absorb the cold around him and send ice through his palm. The thick heavy squall made it hard to see the bolts to replace them, and he resorted to feeling around blindly with numb limbs.

He was miserable. The neat, elegant livery he wore was ruined, and the note in his pocket had melted into an inky blotch on his chest. He hated to think how much it would cost him to reimburse Takuya’s grandfather for the damage. Worse, without the list, the whole trip had become pointless, and he was unable to complete his job.

Soaked to the bone, he grabbed the blanket he spotted when returning the tire and jack to the trunk and hurried to get out of the rain. He didn’t hesitate when he climbed into the back seat. Quickly, shivering at the cold, he loosened the bow tie and fumbled at the buttons with fingers that would not move as he wanted.

The engine ticked to life, the blast of warm air from the heaters hitting him right away. “Thank you.” He managed sincerely, grateful for the warmth and for the gesture.

“Are you OK?” Mimura had an arm thrown around the passenger seat, turned at the waist to see into the back of the car.

Tarou nodded. “Just cold.” He wasn’t having much success with his wet clothes, but within moments, Takuya had scrambled out of his seat, climbed over the gear stick, squeezed between the front seats and the handbrake, and had joined Tarou on the back seat.

His hands, steady and calm, took over where Tarou’s failed. “Let me help.”

Belatedly, he apologised for the ruined note that meant they would need to return empty handed. Mimura reassured him, shrugging out of the heavy military coat to give himself more room to manoeuvre in the narrow space, then returning his attention to peeling the shirt off Tarou’s shoulders.

The backseat was spacious, but it was still difficult for two men to fit comfortably while one was trying to shimmy out of wet clothes. It was a curious struggle of knocked knees and misplaced elbows when Mimura reached around to unclip Tarou’s cummerbund, and Tarou felt Mimura’s breath brush past his cheek.

The temperature in the car was rising rapidly, and as the windows fogged with condensation, Mimura used the blanket to rub the wetness from his hair, scrubbing the soft fabric over Tarou’s cold limbs briskly to work up some warmth. Tarou sighed, Mimura’s presence in his life had always been like this; indirectly the cause of so much personal discomfiture and the only balm for so much more.

Takuya slowed as colour returned to Tarou’s skin. Bare chested, hair damp and spiked at odd angles, he looked older than Mimura remembered, with grease under his nails and a stain over his heart where the ink had marked him. He meant to just wipe at it, to see if he could remove the black dye that sat like a bruise on Tarou’s chest. He had not meant for it to become a caress, for his fingertips to trace over the shape it made on the parchment of smooth skin.

The squeak of Tarou’s soaked trousers against leather broke through the fugue of his mind. Watching Minura’s hand draw over his chest, millimetres from brushing over his nipple, Tarou gave a thin whine, his hips subconsciously tilting toward the man touching him. He bit his lip on the sound, but he didn’t look away – didn’t flinch when Mimura slowly, deliberately flattened his palm over Tarou’s heart. 

Takuya moved slowly, always giving the other man time to protest or pull away, he rolled Tarou’s hardening nipple in his fingers. Gaze fixed on his face, looking for any sign that the skittish man didn’t want what Mimura was doing, his nails scraped gently over the darker, sensitive flesh, skimming over the too-prominent ribs to the sharp jut of his hip.

Neither breathed easily, the air thick with tension and Tarou felt need coil low in his gut. It was an ache he’d become accustomed to recently, but no less insistent for all its familiarity. His body reacted to Takuya’s warm touch, making the sodden cloth of his pants unpleasantly tight and unyielding.

Mimura saw the change in him. He felt the tiny movements of Yamada’s thighs as he swelled, and he wasn’t prepared when the man sighed his name, their eyes meeting in the dim shadow of the overhead light. The next words out of Tarou’s mouth were less welcome. “We need to go back.”

“I know.” He was quiet, but he didn’t whisper; his voice clear and deep. “I know, but this...”

Tarou shook, pulling the damp blanket around his lap to soak up the worst of the water, putting distance between the two of them by the action. “I can’t rely on you every time this happens, Mimura-kun.” He spoke plainly, to cover his embarrassment.

“Huh?”

“I can’t just use you whenever I get like this, just because you’re conveniently around. And dragging you along with me – I’m the worst, I’m sorry.”

The sick knot of worry that churned inside him when Tarou had backed off dissolved in an instant, and relief flooded through him. “Tarou-kun? Hasn’t it occurred to you that I like it when you’re turned on? That maybe I want you to want it; to want me?” Then, enjoying the look of dawning realisation that transformed Tarou’s features, Mimura smiled. He leaned in, breathing his confession into Tarous ear: “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

He gasped, then couldn’t seem to remember how to exhale as every rational thought flew right out of his head. All Tarou knew in that moment was a stab of heat, directly to his groin. His mind tried to replay every touch and stroke he’d received at Takuya’s hand, tried to recall if they had felt as charged as Mimura’s touches felt now. Had every one been deliberate? Had the cool, suave socially elite young man really noticed something desirable in someone as uncultured as himself?

He knew they were friends; that his existence kept Mimura entertained, but he always assumed Takuya would look for more from his lovers. Someone equally refined, with good breeding, and with political connections. Someone with a sharp mind who would inspire his flower arrangements, and appreciate his humour. 

“Oi.” Mimura poked him gently in the ribs, and the breath Tarou had forgotten to breathe rushed from his lungs. 

Tarou blinked the spots from his vision, and drank in the sight of Mimura instead. He wondered if Mimura would have smeared that cake over his lips for anyone; was it really just for Tarou’s sake, like he had thought? Did Mimura enjoy it the way he had, or had it been different for him: More like a kiss?

Before he could overthink it further, Tarou tangled his fingers in the man’s ridiculous shirt, pulling him close by the lace collar and shoving his lips against Mimura’s mouth. Mimura, surprised, bore under the pressure a while, letting Tarou lead though it became increasingly obvious that his knowledge was limited to what he had read in stolen moments at magazine stalls. It was sloppy, and crude, weirdly chaste considering Tarou was trying to get his entire tongue down Mimura’s throat: He didn’t move and kept his other arm pinned to his side.

“Mm!” Takuya broke the kiss, desperately in need of air, and to let out the chuckle he had been suppressing since Tarou tried to climb into his mouth. “Wait, let me, OK?” 

Gently, Mimura caught Tarou under the chin, tilting his head to an angle and pressing softly on Tarou’s waiting lips with his own. He went slowly, moving his whole body to the rhythm he set, gliding his tongue over Tarou’s mouth. He hummed against Tarou’s lips, teased his tongue along the edges until Tarou was pressing into him, eager and open and desperate for Mimura to deepen the kiss.

Tarou moaned with satisfaction when Mimura finally gave him what he wanted; mouths sliding hot and hard over one another as Tarou picked up the technique. He was rocking with Mimura now, the tension in his body climbing rapidly.

They jumped apart at the deep rattle of Mimura’s phone in the centre console, Mimura’s head colliding with the ceiling of the vehicle. He was cursing when he checked the display, and it only got worse when his saw Ikegami Takako’s name flashing back at him. 

Despite his frustration, he took the call.

Ikegami launched right into her complaint without exchanging greetings. “How could you be at a Ball -- an actual , real live Ball, -- and not invite me!?”

“Oh, I’m sorry?” He teased. “Who is this?”

“Mimura-kun! You’re so mean. Is the party at your place? Is it happening right now?”

“Well, Yamada-kun and I were in the middle of a private party ourselves, but I don’t think he’s quite ready to invite anyone else along yet.” 

Tarou had picked up Mimura’s discarded coat, slipping his arms into the sleeves while Ikegami continued to call Takuya names and pump him for details in the same breath. Takuya listened with half an ear, making polite noises down the phone while Tarou scrambled over his lap, climbing into the front passenger seat the same way Mimura had come; although the long coat did rather ruin his view. 

“Look, why don’t you head over there now?” He relented at last. “There’s still hours to go. Just tell Isogai that I invited you.” At the first peal of her high pitched squeal of thanks, Mimura pulled the phone away from his ear, taking a second to find the right key, and hanging up. 

He made his way to the driver’s seat then. It was going to be fun to see Ikegami’s reaction when they arrived, with Tarou so handsomely rumpled and wearing Takuya’s clothes.


	4. Chapter 4

They returned to the party; Tarou full of apologies for the failed errand and keen to make up for his mistake. Mimura also felt full, but it was a different kind of regret that left him eager. Thankfully, Ikegami proved an entertaining distraction.

While Yamada changed into a fresh uniform and returned to work, Mimura let her decorate his arm as he made his way around the crowd. Introducing her to social elites and business leaders as his ‘close personal friend’ and dropping teasing tidbits into the conversation was gratifying for how she blushed and stuttered and jabbed her elbow to his ribs. She finally caught on to the game when he introduced her to one of the wealthiest attendees, a loose faced 28-year-old heir with a prominent underbite and a receding hairline. She played along that time, obviously not too worried about making a good impression. 

The party had gone exactly to plan, even if his grandfather had hated every one of those plans, and stalked off early grumbling about ostentatiousness and shameful hedonism. For Mimura, who -- after discovering what the Event Coordinators had in mind -- had spent weeks intercepting messages to make sure the old man couldn’t put a stop to it, the event had been a roaring success. 

It was the icing on the cake of an amazing night, and he was kind of sad once it was over. 

Yamada stayed long after the caterers had broken down their equipment and left; helping the household staff clean up to the very last. Ikegami stayed back too, lending her help and her company, which Takuya didn’t mind, but when she was ready to leave, Tarou got his coat too.

“Ikegami-san, I’ll walk you home.” He was back in his threadbare t-shirt and his coat really wouldn’t keep the cold autumn night from chilling him to the bone.

Mimura protested. “You nearly caught pneumonia once already tonight.” He reminded the man. “And what will you do if it starts raining again?”

Ikegami gasped triumphantly. “So that’s why Yamada-kun was wearing your coat earlier!”

Takuya chose to ignore her, Tarou did so by accident, while trying to assuage Mimura’s concerns with promises to take care. Mimura would not be brushed off, and for the second time that night offered to drive. 

At least Ikegami was suitably taken with the idea of being chauffeured around, and jumped to agree before Yamada could say either way. She had dressed for the party, not in the regalia of the French Regency era, obviously, but in a simple black dress, the lines of which made her seem taller, more willowy. She certainly looked the part of the well-bred lady as he chivalrously held the door for her, and Ikegami slid into the back seat with a pleased titter. 

She did seem mildly surprised when Tarou walked around the back of the luxury car, and instead of getting in beside her, took the passenger seat in the front. Mimura was a little surprised too, and pleased, though he tried not to show it.

He had scarcely pulled off the property when she said happily from the back. “Ah, I had such a great time. Thanks for the invite Mimura-kun.”

“I needed someone to keep me company,” he deflected easily. “Because this guy insisted on working the whole time.”

Tarou, without an ounce of guile, shrugged. “I was hired to do a job.”

Mimura met her eyes through the rearview mirror. “See. Besides, you do look better in a dress.”

She laughed freely; comfortable after nearly 3 years of friendship in Mimura’s way of paying her compliments. She thanked him for that, and for the ride, and like Tarou, noted the novelty of his driving ability. “I mean, you’re a rich young master, you know?” She went on, the incredulousness clear in her words and tone. “Between the two of you, I just sort of assumed Yamada-kun would be the driver.”

From the passenger seat, Yamada spluttered. “Eh? There’s no way my family could afford a car Ikegami-san!”

“Well no, I suppose not.” She conceded. “But there are lots more jobs available for people who can drive so I thought….”

The conversation lulled for a moment, and Takuya did not miss the thoughtful expression Tarou wore in the silence. 

He dropped Takako at home first, even going so far as to open her door as Isogai would have done. She clearly enjoyed the little bit of roleplay, ducking her head regally but unable to keep her smile under control. “Mimura-kun, the back seat is damp.” She said by way of farewell.

The rest of the journey to Yamada’s ramshackle house was short, so Takuya saved the question that had been playing on his mind for the last mile or so, until he had parked the car. He engaged the handbrake and killed the engine entirely. “Do you want to learn how to drive?”

“Huh?” Hands frozen on the door in the act of levering it open, Tarou looked at him with those big earnest eyes that had arrested his attention from the start. “I really can’t; lessons are expensive, you know.”

“I could teach you.” 

Mimura watched him closely, the man so easy to read that he could pinpoint the moment Yamada decided that it was impossible. “It’s not just that; the exams cost a lot too.”

Takuya was not ready to give up yet. “I could cover-”

“Don’t borrow money!” Tarou intoned the words over the rest of Mimura’s offer. “We can’t return-”

“I know.” He didn’t let him finish. “I know that. It wouldn’t be a loan.” Yamada sat and listened while Mimura expanded on his idea: That Tarou would earn the cost of the practical and written exams by showing Mimura how to take care of his car. He wasn’t sure if it was his argument or his thumb stroking over Tarou’s knee that got the smaller man to agree, nonetheless, he was a happy man as he returned home again that night.

 

When Yamada Tarou next met his best friend, at the red brick columns to the university campus, they hadn’t seen each other in nearly 36 hours. There was nothing different in the way they met, or the greetings they exchanged, except maybe Tarou noticed now, how Mimura’s gaze lingered on him. It made him wonder how he had ever missed it before, unless Takuya was just less guarded with it, since the encounter in the car. 

Tarou hoped so. His stomach gave a squeeze, his breakfast obviously insufficient now that the thoughts running through his head were stimulating enough to burn calories.

“Are you free tonight...? I thought we could fill out the paperwork for your provisional license, and get it filed right away.”

Yamada shook his head, partly in reply and partly to clear it of sudden wild imaginings the space between Mimura’s question and his explanation had inspired in him. “I did it yesterday.” Should he have waited? Was it something that Mimura had wanted to do together? He really didn’t know. He’d done it because it was necessary, and he’d been working nearby. He’d assumed it was a prerequisite of starting his lessons, not that it would be the first one. “I’m sorry.”

Mimura bent slightly at his waist to lock eyes with him, and he clapped his hand on Tarou’s shoulder. “Don’t be. We can do something else.”

“Really? Because I’ve been reading up on the written exam, and I think I’ve got that down. It’s just the physical…” He trailed off, mystified by Takuya’s reaction of covering a single bark of laughter behind his hand. “What is it?”

In a single step, Mimura was completely in Yamada’s personal space, head angled to talk close to his ear. “If you say you need me to get you ready for a physical exam right now, Tarou-chan, we might not make it to our morning classes.”

Yamada had never felt so pleased and embarrassed at the same time. He whined at the man good naturedly, and walked ahead to create a bit of distance. He felt Mimura’s eyes on his back all the way into the main building.

The whole exchange left him feeling warm in a way a hot meal would never; nor was it the same heat he felt when his body was craving release. Perhaps it was the enduring warmth that seeped into him from Takuya’s hand on his shoulder, now that Tarou was hyper aware of every pat and backrub and each caress held new meaning. He was beginning to understand that Mimura was just as tactile as he was, but where Tarou reached out to others on impulse, acting without thought, Mimura’s every move was deliberate, and only for him.

Takuya seemed to enjoy the reaction he elicited anyway, because he kept doing it. In their brief meetings between classes, or when they shared lunch, Mimura delighted in making Tarou come completely undone with a whispered promise of what was ahead. During the hurried lessons, the older man took his time to torment him with barely disguised propositions that Tarou didn’t know how to answer.

He wanted Takuya, in every way the charming young man suggested, every time he suggested it, but it was always with the most impossible timing. They’d be passing in a corridor at school, or in the store, with the other Yamada children just a few feet away, in the middle of a regular conversation and Mimura would floor him with a meaningful look and a carefully placed hand. If Tarou was braver, he’d try to brazen it out, to challenge Takuya to act on his exciting threats, but he never knew how.

It was worse somehow during their lessons, because they were alone, or nearly. Tarou found he liked the way Mimura’s face turned serious when he focused, his brow drawn close in concentration and his natural pout accentuated by the the motion. It was difficult to stay on topic when Mimura’s soft side swept brown hair smelled like apples, his cologne an intoxicating roulette on any given day, between citrus, mint, coconut or cinnamon. He couldn’t help leaning in each day, to identify which fragrance the man had chosen that morning.

Then, in the middle of some instruction, with his dark jeans riding low on his narrow hips and his hand deep in the workings of the engine, Takuya would hit him with a barely disguised innuendo. And Tarou could do nothing about it. 

Because they were in the middle of a lesson.

Because Mimura was busy.

He also did nothing to stop it; mostly because he liked it too much to ask him to.

They kissed goodbye sometimes, if there was no one around to see them, and Tarou could find himself grinding on Takuya’s lap, and still, the older man would send him on his way when the day was over. The whole thing left Tarou, if not as frustrated as he had been, certainly feeling impatient for something he couldn’t define.

The thing was, he would normally have gone to Mimura for advice, and without his friend to help keep him grounded, he felt lost. If he could just ask Mimura what to do, he told himself, then that would fix everything. But he couldn’t do that, could he?

Wait.

Could he?

It was the last week of September, and Tarou was behind the wheel of the car for only his second time when he finally worked up the courage to address his concern. “Can I ask a question?” He kept his eyes on the empty road ahead of him, he used the distraction of driving to pretend he was talking to himself. “What sort of things do… ah, couples, do together?”

He wasn’t looking, so he didn’t know how Mimura took the question, but the man spoke normally right away. “Now, ease onto the clutch, and move into third. That’s right. I suppose, couples enjoy each other’s company, so whatever they do together becomes doing it together. Ah, try to indicate a little sooner, or you won’t have time to slow down and drop gears before the turn.”

“Sorry.” Knuckles white in their correct position on the wheel, Tarou had nearly reached the final strait of private road that ran through the rear of the Mimura owned grounds. “So, what about if they were friends first? If they enjoyed each other's company before, and already do stuff together…. What’s different?”

 

“If it’s us? This.” The low tone was the only warning Tarou had before Mimura’s hand was on the top of his thigh, kneading over the muscle through his clothes. He didn’t exactly slam on the breaks, but the inertia had them both pitching forward.

“What is this?” He asked, levelling at stare at the man in the passenger seat that was full of exasperation.

Takuya had snatched his hand back the second Yamada hit the brake, and at the outburst, he put the gear stick in neutral and engaged the handbrake. “What’s the matter?”

“I can’t do this right now Mimura!” He complained, dropping his head on the wheel. “You say all this stuff; tell me and tease me and touch me when I can’t touch you back and then you don’t do anything when I can.” He hated that he was whining: The combination of the close quarters of the car, and the delicious scent of Mimura and licorice had his nerves on a knife edge before he’d ever turned the ignition.

Takuya laughed then, and Tarou might have cried at the harshness of it had the man not put his hand right back at Yamada’s thigh while he reassured him. “Any time - every time - I say or do something like that, it’s because I want you to know how much I think of you. Even when we can’t - no, especially when we can’t do anything about it; I want you to know that I want to. Because I always do. You just need to say when, Tarou-kun, and I’ll do whatever you want.” He waited a few beats, and Yamada was still trying to process his explanation when Mimura added: “So, what do you want right now?”

“You.” He answered quickly. He wasn’t embarrassed to admit that, but he hadn’t even planned the next words out of his mouth. “Let me stay here tonight?”

 

*

 

For all its impulsiveness, it wasn’t a simple thing for Tarou to arrange. He had to return home, feed his family and put his siblings to bed. The bravado that made him say it wore off quickly, replaced by adrenaline when the sun set. 

That same adrenaline carried him back to Mimura’s place just after 10. He followed quietly when Takuya met him at the gate, a finger pressed to his lips. They circled around the house to get to Mimura’s room via the veranda. The bed loomed before them, but that's not where he was being taken. 

In the en suite, he let Takuya undress them both slowly. Between kisses, and murmured praise, Takuya moved them under the hot spray. The soapy washcloth mapping each inch of sun kissed skin, leaving a slippery trail of creamy white suds. 

Tarou let the water wash over him. He let the sensations breaking out under his skin rock him. He moved against Mimura’s body. Slotting easily into the longer, angular frame, his body sparked at the contact. It felt amazing. He felt amazing; needy and needed and about to be satisfied both ways. 

Takuya, a curtain of water falling over his face from the thick hair plastered to his head, stroked him. Soothing and patient he narrated each move he made all the while teaching Tarou what he needed to know. And with his hands and his mouth, he explained why Tarou needed to know something. How good it would feel. 

In truth, the process sounded gross, and an awful lot of work. He took Mimura at his word that they didn’t need to worry about that now, though. Besides, with Mimura on his knees, in front of him, running his palms up the backs of Tarou’s legs, to the curve of his ass, his mind immediately went to other things. 

He was already half hard, gowing harder with Takuya kissing up the inside of his thighs. He nosed around the base of the shaft, a hand sliding under him to feel the weight of his balls. Tarou stumbled. He caught himself with a wet slap against the cold tile. Then Mimura was back on his feet, pulling him close. 

Calm, solid Takuya, settling him, reassuring. His voice was pitched low, soft and certain as he kissed Tarou back to breathlessness. There was something in his gentleness that eased the sharp edges of Tarou’s nerves, smoothing the screaming pitching within him to a hum. It was constant, and strong, and pleasurable in its own way. 

Mimura towelled him dry, briskly but with meticulous care. He tousled Yamada’s hair to spikes, smiling, and raking his fingers through it when he was done.

In the bedroom, the sheets were cool as he was pushed back against them. The friction of his body squirming under Takuya’s soon warmed them. Eyes wide, he watched the way the yellow lamplight cast shadows on the other man’s skin. He couldn’t look away as Mimura dipped low, the light glinting off the earring peeking through his hair.

He didn’t want to miss it when Takuya closed his mouth around the length of him. It was too much all at once though. Too much heat in his belly, too much pressure in his chest, too much feeling all at once to keep his eyes open. His breath went ragged, Mimura going slowly, but so completely and thoroughly wrecking him with the slide of his tongue, and the grip of his mouth. 

Tarou bucked uncontrollably. It had never felt like this, he hadn’t imagined that it could. His body moved on instinct, without the experience necessary for restraint. Takuya grounded him, a firm hand pinning Tarou at the hip, to calm his wilder surges. His other hand travelled up the sheets to thread his fingers through Tarou’s palm; holding his hand while driving him to distraction.

Tarou stifled a cry, his free arm thrown over his face, to muffle his noises in the crook of his elbow. Mimura was making sounds too, deep rumbles in his throat that vibrated along Tarou’s dick and made his flesh burn. Wet slurps as his suction faltered, barely keeping up with the snap of Yamada’s hips. 

He was too late warning Takuya when it happened.

Tarou came, biting down on his lip, hardly able to contain the gruttal shout as thick ropes of white coated Mimuras lips, shooting wildly across his cheeks. He tried to huff out an apology, to climb out quickly from under the larger man. Mimura squeezed the hand he held, making him lie still, making him watch. He licked his lips, reaching what he could with his tongue.

A fresh wave of desire began to build within Yamada. He was still twitching, his heartbeat racing from it, but Tarou could sense that Mimura wanted him drawn tight. The man was going to stretch him, lay him bare and wring out every ounce of inhibition. He found himself wanting that too. He wanted to discover how much he could take. And he wanted to know if he could make Takuya feel as good.

Was it possible, when he was bound to be clumsy and uncertain? Oh, but he wanted to try.

Something unspoken passed between them. With a small nod, Tarou put his hand under Takuya’s chin, thumb caressing the line of his jaw. He pulled the man up, their bodies now slick with sweat, gliding over each other smoothly. His kissed the corner of Mimura’s lips, catching a spot that he had missed and tasting himself on his tongue. Takuya opened to him, but Tarou detoured briefly to lap up the rest of the mess that he’d made of Mimura’s flawless face.

It was different, he noted, to the way Takuya had tasted. He didn’t spend much time wondering on it though. Mimura was waiting for him, and Tarou shared the flavour on his tongue, pushing into the man’s mouth and swiping along the heat inside. 

Mimura’s appreciative groan spurred him on. The feel of him hot and hard, bumping the ridges of Tarou’s abdomen, had him straining to press closer. Grinding against the stiff length until his own stomach was tacky with sweat and precome. Each gasp and curse he earned made him braver; watching Takuya’s habitual control beginning to slip was a powerful sight.

He was high on it. 

Hands fisted in Mimura’s hair, he wrapped his legs around the man’s waist. With the turn of his hips, he told the man what he wanted, and Takuya’s arm curled around his back as he flipped them so Tarou sat astride him. 

The new position allowed Tarou more freedom to set the pace. He had no intention of giving either of them a break. He kissed the skin he could reach, rolled the stiff peaks of Takuya’s nipples over the pads of his thumbs. He suckled on the sensitive spots between the man’s ribs. 

He catalogued everything in his mind. The harsh, breathy grunts he forced from Takuya’s lips. The tremors that ticked under his flesh when Tarou’s fingers danced lightly over the hollow at the top of his thighs. The smell of soap and sex. How every part of him facing Mimura, every bit of him he touched, was warmer than the rest. Like basking in the sun.

Then Tarou’s hands were sliding up the cleft of Mimura’s ass. The man pressed down on him, his voice hoarse when he spoke. “Tarou… would you - could you -”

Mimura had explained in the shower, of course, but it hadn’t prepared him for just what it would do to him to hear Mimura asking for it right then. The man under him was still trying to get the words out. He was close to pleading through shallow breaths when Tarou nodded. 

Takuya twisted, reaching to the bedside table and pressing the things Tarou needed into his hand. He was nervous, and excited following Mimura’s instructions. He circled round the puckered hole, hand cool and slick, the man encouraging him by his words and actions. Then he pushed in. Not far, slowly. And Takuya arched high off the bed. His choked off cry breaking the string of words he’d been whispering before.

Tarou was fascinated. He drank in the sight, exploring what he could do to make Takuya buck and writhe on his finger. He went deep. He pressed hard. He stretched around the edges. And he added a second digit when it seemed Mimura might claw rents in the sheets. It slid home quickly, Mimura bearing down hard, moving his whole body to sink Tarou deeper into him. Faster and more forceful than Tarou had been. He took the cue; scissoring and stroking down the sides with quick nimble fingers. He touched somewhere deep inside, and Mimura keened.

So he did it again.

Sweat bloomed over his own brow; he concentrated on dragging out Takuya’s pleas. He took his time to answer them though, letting his own fever grow. Even with three fingers buried to the knuckles it seemed impossibly tight. But Mimura wanted it, told him to hurry; that he wanted Tarou inside him,and Tarou couldn’t hold himself back. 

He fumbled a bit with the condom, unfamiliar with the technique. The lube warmed by his hand dripped down his thighs. He lined himself up, and let Takuya lean into it. To help breach that first bit of resistance and to fill himself on Tarou’s flesh. He didn’t dare move. The heat. The almost painful clutch of Mimura’s hole. It was nearly too much. He clung to the man under him, breath held, head resting at the muscle of Takuya’s chest.

“Hnn… Please move, Tarou. Just - just please….”

Tarou did as he was told. Takuya had a hand curled around his own dick, the glide of his palm following the uneven pace Tarou set. He tested the rhythm, speeding up to see Mimura keep up, then slowing; going deeper. Finally, when Takuya didn’t slow in tandem with him. His fist pumping fast and frantic at the thrust of Tarou’s cock, he came, painting the smooth planes of his abdomen.

Tarou followed soon after. Sparks lit behind his eyes and under his skin; he shuddered to completion. 

It took a while before he could make his languid limbs work, and he felt Takuya wince as he withdrew from inside him. “Sorry. Did I-?”

Before he could finish the question, Mimura was shaking his head, a wry smile at the corner of his mouth. His eyes tired, but happy. He helped Tarou get rid of the condom with the efficiency of practice, then gathered him close in the circle of his arms. 

It was just a hug. A cuddle interspersed with soft kisses and affectionate nuzzles at the juncture of his neck. Tarou loved it, welcoming the intimacy and responding in kind. He was bone tired, content, and full of love in that moment. And later, when they’d cleaned up and drawn the covers over themselves, Mimura’s bed didn’t seem too big while Tarou was wrapped in the cradle of Takuya’s body.


End file.
